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by nextraordinaire



Series: Something Blue [2]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Established Relationship, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 03:13:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1966842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nextraordinaire/pseuds/nextraordinaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik has trouble coming to terms with the reality of what coming off his suppressants will do not only to himself, but also to his and Charles' relationship. And then there's the fact that there always are secrets left to tell.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> The adventures in brackets continue. The song referenced is by Talking Heads - not the Lumineers.

There are flecks of rust in the corner of the bathroom mirror.

They have been there for a while now, small dots, almost like seeds from some exotic plant, (like the small, beady eyes of a multi-eyed creature) and over the last few weeks, they’ve started to diffuse, the blackness spreading up the side. Every time Erik heads into the bathroom, taking the pill box of the shelf, they’re there (watching).

It’s annoying since he could probably make them go away if he put his mind to it. Not only would it look better (cleaner), but it’d up the value of the apartment as well.

(He’d gotten it through a second-hand contract just a few months after graduating from college. It was a one bedroom apartment in a shady area, so being startled awake by police sirens was a common occurrence, but the interior was in good shape with a thick, sturdy door, likewise walls and a spacious living room. He’d felt at home from the moment he closed the door around him.)

Fluorescent light bounces off the tainted mirror as he flips the lid of the pill box, listening to Charles bustling about in the kitchen. They’d decided to take a quiet weekend in after the nerve-wrecking minutes at the IRS that had turned to hours as they signed the paperwork whenever a new contract came out of the printer. The beta woman in charge of them had been smiling all the way through, (an encouraging glint in her eyes that had turned surprised when she’d asked Charles to sign the wrong line, always assuming). Then there had been even more waiting until, sometime around closing time, Erik had handed over his prescription card and watched (felt, as if it had been his own fingers, there, between the blades) as a pair of scissors cut it in half (just like that, one less expense for the government).

Charles is whistling now (the theme from  _This Must Be The Place(Naive Melody)_ , since the 80’s station had been on in the car there, Charles’ fingers tapping against the glove compartment, distracting himself not to talk, his mind projecting  _are you alright know this is hard we can go back if you want not too late_ ).

Erik studies the flaked edges of his nostrils, the skin brittle like papyrus.

He picks up the very last pills in the pill box (fingers quivering) swallows against the parchedness in his throat and knocks them back. It feels like it always has; a taste of chemicals as they lay on his tongue just a second too long, a slight resistance as he swallows.

Every day for eleven years now. One in the morning, two in the evening and not linked with any strenuous activity, alcohol or sex.

(The colorful post-it notes his mother had put around the house for the first three months – all caps and with a happy-face in the corner – had annoyed him to no end. He’d come home from soccer practice to find the first one on the kitchen counter; “WAIT AN HOUR”. Teenaged and angry he’d snapped at her to stop treating him like a child.)

The empty pillbox (the T for Tuesday is chafed, the white worn down by a perfunctory thumb, the tarnished blue plastic underneath the only evidence it was ever there) goes in the cabinet under the sink, close to the back. Behind all of the cleaning supplies, it won’t be seen unless you know it’s there. Erik gets off of his knees, splashes his face with hot water before he leaves the bathroom altogether (turns the light off, closes the door behind him with a click).

Coming out in the living room, Charles is already sprawled out on the couch, comfortable and with the remote in hand as he watches some crime show, wholly engrossed. One arm is slung over the armrest, and his foot is perched on the coffee table (garage sale, mosaic embedded in the table top – “I don’t need it,” “Nonsense, everyone needs a cheap coffee table”, It’s not that cheap”, “Asch, we can haggle a bit”, “You can, you mean”) leaving his legs open in an invitation, the seams of his trousers straining.

Erik wonders if he’s always filled up space like that.

He goes around the sofa and slumps down into Charles; back against his chest, soaking in his warmth, the scent of laundry detergent (Erik’s), bergamot(Charles’), soda water (the bottle on the table) and a whiff of alpha that goes straight up his nose. It smells like ember. Charles, including his scent, is colder than most alphas, but his wardrobe – all cardigans and wool – increases his body temperature, especially in the summertime.

(He’d asked Erik once, walking home through the chilly night, caffeine buzzing in their legs and minds, if he found him cold. Erik had thought about his mother’s sometimes too warm skin and Magda’s absolute scorching heat that had burned him more than once. Then he’d shaken his head.)

Arms go around him the moment he’s comfortable; a thigh pressing against his side, hugging his waist. Erik’s knees bend, slightly, feet disappearing a bit into his pajama bottoms.

“I’d started to worry you’d drowned in the sink” Charles rumbles, pressing his nose behind Erik’s ear, huffing a bit. Erik closes his eyes, listens only to the steady thump of Charles’ heart (the beat of it against his shoulder is slow and strong; a rush of blood with every beat.)

“Is that even possible?”

A hand cards through his hair; fingers lingering at the base of his skull. “If you’re unlucky enough to get your head stuck under the tap? Yes.”

“Sometimes I wonder where you get all those stories from.”

“Students, Erik – they’re absolutely fascinating.”

On the television screen, a crime detective is talking lowly to a female omega slumped against some sort of container. Even crouching, the posture gives the detective away as an alpha but then again, most police officers are. His lips are moving, carefully hiding his teeth and his hands are up, placating. Her soft, heart-shaped face is flushed and twisted into a snarl, tears streaming down her cheeks as she spits out her words, saliva flying in feral strings from her swollen lips. In a situation like that, most alphas would go for the topmost knob of the spine – press down, and a soothing buzz blooms in the whole body.

Erik swallows.

The camera zooms out. There is caked blood on the woman’s thighs, disappearing up under her knee-length skirt.

Charles, engrossed in the show, gasps. Then he reaches for the remote, just as the omega shouts (hysterical, sobbing, torn)

“Why are you asking that? I didn’t do a thing, I have no idea how I got here – get off me, get off me,  _don’t touch_  – and then you put in the oven on 350 degrees for twenty minutes. A perfect dish to impress that special someone with, the morning after.”

Behind him, Charles has gone stiff and cold, his hands running up and down Erik’s arms, as if assessing for injury. The beat of his heart is faster now, a bass amp against Erik’s back.

Erik stands up (the warmth too hot, arms around him stifling). “I’m going to bed.”

Charles’ eyes flitter to the television again (the bright colors, the lights, the alpha female’s beautiful kitchen) before he turns it off. The living room goes dark, except for the orange light from the streetlights outside filtering in, landing on Erik’s chest.

“I think that we do need to talk about this again, Erik, but I don’t know what–”

“Charles.”

Charles stops. Ever since he proposed, his nervous rambles have been less frequent. As long as Erik is quiet, he goes on, but just with the tired snap of his name, he keeps his mouth shut.

Overall, Charles has become more muted. It makes Erik uneasy.

“Not tonight.”

When he later curls onto his side, facing the window and the winds whipping through the leaves, he hears only the hitched breaths of the woman (her bloody thighs, skirt and blouse torn, faced flushed from hormones running wild; panicked as she couldn’t remember a thing)

Charles sighs in his sleep, slinging an arm over his waist.

It’s a worst case scenario, he has Charles and the door is thick, he reminds himself as Charles presses closer (breathing down his neck, lips nudging the atlas vertebrae). Erik doesn’t turn around (watches the night, the incoming fall storm until the first inklings of light break through the overcast sky).

—-

Overnight, a cold snap hits. It freezes the sidewalks and makes the air crisp and sharp. It has never bothered him before, but he’s not immune to it either. So when he then comes home after his Saturday morning run (sweat steadily cooling under his hat, shivering slightly) and is met by a sneezing Kurt sitting on the sofa; sniffling as he puts another apple slice between his teeth, it’s not a surprise that it goes down like it does.

“Erik! Why are you wet?” Kurt beams, before his five-year-old attention is snapped back to the current episode of the Muppet show that Charles is indefensibly responsible for.  

“Hello” Erik answers, makes his ear buds coil out of his ears with a flick of his fingers. “It’s sweat, not water, kiddo.”

“Eww,” Kurt replies, sniveling loudly until he has to cough. Erik watches him, before he goes up to the battered sofa (also from a garage sale – “I think it stores fleas, Charles,” “Well, it’ll be a surprise when we get home then.” “No.” “Raven has flea powder, and you really need a couch.” “The floor is fine.” “No, Erik, it’s really not.”)

“Why is Kurt here?” he then asks, loud enough to make it through the thick walls as he perches on the armrest, taking an apple slice from Kurt’s bowl when its stuck under his nose.

Charles’ voice comes from the bedroom. ”Raven dropped him off – she just going to an appointment, and didn’t want him to be alone when he’s sick. Hope it’s alright.”

“No problem.”

Erik doesn’t like kids, normally (makes him uneasy, too self-conscious) but Kurt, with his blue skin, disappearance tendencies and cheeky grin, is an exception. He sits down on the floor in front of the sofa and waits until the episode ends (forgetting his damp undershirt, even as it goes cold against back) and then he and Kurt play Go Fish until Raven comes to pick him up.

—-

When Erik then gets sick (acknowledging it for the first time in years, couldn’t risk feeling vulnerable) it’s not a shock, although the fever wrecking his body has Charles study him from the doorway (blue eyes strained around the edges, mouth downturned and arms crossed over his chest). Erik hisses at him to leave him alone, lest he be sick too.

Sometime later, when he’s on the verge of falling asleep, clock barely four and afternoon light shimmering in the bedroom, he feels the bed dip and Charles curling up behind him on top of the covers.

“We really do need to talk though, darling” he hears, distantly – in the limbo between wakefulness and sleep. Something tells him he’d better wake up, but instead he tips over, leaves it for tomorrow.

—-

That’s when it happens.

He wakes up to pitch-black darkness, temples pulsing and metal screeching with every little turn of his head. At first, he fears the fever is back again (he’s burning up and the very tips of his fingers throb and tingle with discomfort and something else) before he takes a deep breath that rattles his lungs, and the scent of Charles on his pillow, along his back is  _scorching._

Usually, the flames makes him nauseous, but now  he just wants to push into them, soak in them until he’s ashes and bones (his marrow is boiling with every breath, vision turning white-hot around the edges, his stomach clenches and – he  _wants_  and it’s out of control). His leg twitches.

(A claw foot tub filled to the brim with freezing water, his mother’s hands on his thirteen-year-old neck, her muffled voice through the water.)

He stumbles to the bathroom (fluorescent light cuts his retina with sharp nails) and throws up in the sink (thin bile, nothing else in his stomach). Trembling, heart rate nearing two-hundred (the iron particles rushing through his blood stream like they can’t get there fast enough, like more blood will fill the ache inside) he turns the knobs of the shower with a jerk of his hand until it’s freezing.

Waiting is agony, but soon enough the bath tub is filled with water so cold it could make an alpha blind. Gripping the edges of the tub, filling his lungs with air, Erik plunges his head in.

The vein at the side of his neck screams with the dissonance of it all (the heat, blinding and white-hot inside, burning; the ice of the water, the tendrils of cold slipping in through his pores; the lava curdling into stone) and his grip turns white around the tub. Opening his eyes underwater, he can see the light flickering and cutting through the surface, splitting into tenfold of muted and blurry rays. The throbbing in his head and the ache in his lower back is still there (muscles coiling in preparation, tighter, tighter, working towards the peak) but when his lungs’ screams for air turn hysterical, he re-surfaces, the fire dampened.

Not for long, but enough to breathe. He heaves in gulps of air, the tiles of the floor cold under his thighs. Overhead, the light flickers again, but it doesn’t hurt him.

Struggling to his feet (the fire is sleeping, but its ember is alive in there, under his skin, crawling still, just not as hot) he washes away the traces of bile in the sink. His heart beats against his ribs, and he just has time to wash his teeth, get rid of the horrible taste in his mouth, before he ducks his head under water again ( makes the water cover his neck, the atlas vertebrae, the carotid) to cool off.

He should probably (wants to) go back to bed. Charles (like ember, not wildfire, bergamot) should (would, wants to, had said so) help him through this. That is what heats and heat leaves are for, anyway. Strengthening the bond between individuals through sex and care, through submission, dominance and – procreation.

Children. Always children.

He needs to tell Charles soon.

 (“Too narrow”, they’d said, looking over the x-rays over what turned out to be a still intact femur, concerned. He’d been fifteen years old; the flimsy paper under his thighs rustling. “He’s way too narrow. Caesarian or not, it’ll kill him.”)

The bathroom door slams opens.

“Erik!”

_are you alright is it time already oh my god what are you no no no_

Hands on his shoulder (the t-shirt in-between, he doesn’t feel the burn) rip him away from the cold. Erik sputters, turns his head too late, and his chin catches on the edge of the tub (teeth clanking together, rattling his skull, his bones) and he grunts. Charles’ eyes (blue, glittering and bigger than they should be – too pretty, doll-like) are worried as they flit over him, hands following in their wake. Hands hold his face with thumbs against his cheekbones, (to Charles they’ve always been too sharp, but still he lets Erik handle the cooking) and Erik closes his eyes. The contact soothes everything down to a simmer.

“Are you alright? How long have you been in here?”

Erik can’t see, but he hears the splash of water and Charles’ hiss. The water is cold – very cold, that he’s made sure of. Then there’s more rustling and a towel drying his hair. Charles’ hands on his head (his hands soft and gentle).

“Erik, how long have you been in here? It’s eight already” Charles asks again, voice just this side of demanding (no alpha voice, never orders,).

Erik opens his eyes when the only thing he can find in his mind is nothingness.

(A black hole – “Did you have breakfast?” “I don’t know, Ma”)

Outside the bathroom window, it’s light. It was pitch black when he got here.

He stops breathing, looks up, desperate. “I don’t know.”

The flash in Charles’ eyes is so quick (a lightning tearing through a rainy fall night, thunder in its wake, soft red lips pressed against his for the first time and it’s alright) but he hears the whispered projection clatter through his mind as loud as a cabinet tumbling down the stairs.

_Oh no._

“I don’t know” Erik repeats, legs shaking even though he’s kneeling, fingertips hurting because he doesn’t (can’t) remember what he’s done in here (has he stayed here at all), “I don’t know, I don’t  _know_ , I don’t – ”

He’s trembling all over; shoulders heaving with each intake of air (oxygen) and then the  _want_ in his veins hits a new notch. His breath hitches (muscles uncoiling and  _god_ did it always hurt like that, he’s soaked already how did he miss that) and he presses his fingers (palms, splayed) down on the cold tiles, avoiding Charles’ eyes (pupils blown wide, the blue disappearing, waning, give him back).

“Erik…”

His eyes sting again (welling over) but not from the water (he’s so cold he can trace the hot trails) and then Charles scorching scent hits him straight in the face (nowhere to run, nowhere to hide).

(“How many heats have you had?” “Three.” “Alright – solo or duo?” “Solo.” “Did you have any complications?” “No.” “Okay, well, as you get older and choose to get off these, the heats will not only become more strenuous physically, but emotionally–” What about blackouts?” “Well, they happen – more or less severe, though. The average omega loses about three hours in total over five days’ worth of heat.” “Well, fuck you, that’s more than enough time for some–” “Mr. Lehnsherr, that’s why unmonitored heats are prohibited. Please sit down.”)

 “Look at me. You've been here the whole time. I checked the door - tape is still there.”

Charles’ lips were made for kissing (the way they move is almost obscene) and Erik is less than three inches away. But Charles’ eyes are almost black; just a sliver of blue around his pupil. His lips are quivering and his smile is shaky (holding himself back, shoulders stiff and restrained).

“Come on, let’s stand up”

Arms are around him now; pulling him to his feet even though he’s trembling all over.

There’s a faint rumble in Charles’ voice – it curls around his words like a security blanket – and even if Erik feels like he’s about to fall, he can’t disobey. His vision is swimming (dizzy and hot) but he manages after a few tries and with Charles’ steady hands; one on his back, holding him up and the other curled around his neck.

“There you are. Are you coherent now, or ridden?”

Erik blinks. His vision is still glowing at the edges, his body is tight (pulsing, clenching, ticking) but he can process every word, and when looking at him, Charles isn’t glowing.

“I’m here.”

“Okay,” Charles then says, nodding too (taking a deep breath), “so, are we doing this, or do you want me to just,” he swallows, “look out for you?”

Erik’s head lolls back, his neck not cooperating at all (bergamot going straight to his brain). “What?”

“I really wanted to talk this through with you before your heat hit” Charles says, voice slightly exasperated, “but now this has got to do.”

“A real, level-headed yes from you is the only thing that can make me mate with you right now, okay? If I feel the slightest hesitation, I’m not touching –”

Erik’s throat tightens (it’s ridiculous, feeling this open). “It doesn't affect you? My sc– ”

“Stop it, you stupid thing” Charles says, fondly (thumbs circling his cheekbones, gently, as if he’s fragile, brittle, papyrus) “I do have some self-restraint – especially when you’re radiating distress like a foghorn.”

“I’m not –“he starts, but then his insides tighten again (harder, harder, towards a goal) and he has to gasp, slumping against Charles because his feet can’t hold him up. He falls like a rag doll, nose against Charles’ clavicle (breathing ember and bergamot, and then it tightens another notch).

He groans.

“Hormones hi-jacking your brain. I know – it’s ninth grade stuff.”

“Shut up.”

Charles chuckles. “I might have gone to an all alphas’ school, but we studied  _some_ heat psychology at least. Come on now, back to bed.”

Then he pauses (fingers in Erik’s hair, making sparks of tamed fire light up under his skin with the touch) and tilts Erik’s head up. “Do you want me to stay?”

Erik counts the ticks of Charles’ pulse against his nose (it’s fast, he’s breathing is shallow, expectant) and then nods (no dread, no panic).

“Yes.”


End file.
